


Conversations with Death

by ellorgast



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Complete, F/M, No Major Character Death, Witchcraft, almost no historical accuracy whatsoever, incredibly butchered irish mythology, medieval irish supernatural romcom, surprisingly little death in fact, warning for animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellorgast/pseuds/ellorgast
Summary: Myrna (Minako) can see death, as all witches can. She just didn't expect him to be so charming. A spooky Minako/Kunzite medieval Irish supernatural romcom written for the autumn-themed 2018 Senshi & Shitennou Mini-Bang.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art and calligraphy courtesy of the incredibly talented [SmokingBomber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokingbomber/pseuds/smokingbomber)! Huge thank you to them and to the mods and participants of this Mini-Bang for their support, insight, solidarity, tears, and encouragement. I haven't written so much so fast in years, and it's all thanks to these guys. 
> 
> Names of characters have been altered to fit the setting. A reference list is included at the end of this chapter in case characters are unclear.

Stormy nights always brought visitors. Was there some yet-undiscovered rule about that somewhere hidden away in the tomes filling the witch's shelves? Was that why it seemed that, like clockwork, if a storm rolled overhead after dusk began to fall, Myrna was all but guaranteed to get her hair wet?

She sighed down at the roaring fire she had only just stoked as a series of dull thuds sounded on the door. Every knock against that door sounded dull, because the ancient wood was so thick with moss that it was like trying to knock through carpet. It groaned when opened, as though announcing each visitor to the house at large, and always closed with reluctance.

The face that met her was pale and wide-eyed. The man was out of breath, having run here up the winding mountain path. He blinked at Myrna, then glanced around the room behind her, as though hoping another face might appear. "I--I was looking for--"

"The witch, yes. What do you need?"

He squinted at her through the dim firelight, raindrops dripping down his eyebrows and still huffing from the climb. "You're the witch?"

"Do you need me to put the hat on?"

"N-no, I just…" he faltered, failed to look her fully in the eye, and decided to give up. "It's--my grandfather, he's taken a fever and his breathing's getting really bad and the physician won't be returning to the village until next week--"

As he spoke, Myrna was already pulling open a worn satchel and throwing jars of herbs haphazardly into it. White willow bark was good for fever, wasn't it? Maybe feverfew too. Poor breathing? She'd read something somewhere about that, hadn't she? Her eyes darted over the shelves and shelves of neatly-labeled substances, but nothing stood out. Brightly, as a distraction, she urged the villager to continue. "How long ago did this begin?"

The villager, still standing in her doorway, dripping everywhere, began a fumbling account of his grandfather's illness, while Myrna proceeded to climb onto the bookshelf. This would not normally be considered a simple task for one wearing numerous long skirts, yet she did it in such a swift, careless manner that the villager, after an uncomfortable pause, awkwardly resumed his explanation. His mother had always taught him that it was both rude and unwise to question a witch's actions.

The book she sought after was discovered on the top shelf, and after some careful wiggling, sprang free of its place and sent a cascade of dust down on Myrna's head. She wrinkled her nose up at the offending shelf before dropping back down to the floor. She flipped through the pages, which were aged but neatly kept, every line written in the same ornate calligraphy. "Cough… cough… cough… aha!" She rushed past the baffled villager back to her wall of herbs and plucked up the required jar. "Marshmallow root. Of course I knew that."

  


She shoved the book into the bag just in case she forgot again and pulled her cloak off the hook. That motion brought the first sense of relief that she had seen on the villager's face since he arrived. If the witch was coming, even a witch who confused him, then everything should be fine, should it not?

On her way out, Myrna reached for her black pointed hat. It was raining out, and she did so hate to get her hair wet.

***

The storm still grumbled to itself hours later, though it was a quieter sort of sound, as though even the thunder found the hour to be late, and wished to find its bed. Myrna sat alone with her sleeping patient, listening to the rain tapping on the thin little windows.

She had followed the book's instructions carefully. She was sure of it. Thyme before mint, chopped thrice with a silver blade. She had counted the chops one by one, to be sure she did not get lost in the middle.

And yet the sickly wheeze of his every breath sliced through the gentle sound of the storm, rending the darkness. Irritably, Myrna dragged her stool closer to the single candle that was posted by his bed (to the east of him, just as the book specified) and glared down at the careful script. She was doing this right! Why wasn't it working?

A particularly pained wheeze sounded from the sleeping man, and she shot a glare up at his chest, as though the source of the sound were some nasty little creature sitting atop his nightshirt that she could simply scold into submission. "Go away already!" she hissed.

"I am afraid I cannot," a voice replied.

Myrna's breath caught in her throat. She had been alone, the door firmly closed against family members who might fuss and disturb her work. It was a tiny room, barely containing space enough for her to perch on her stool between the bed and the dresser. And yet there was a voice. Not a very loud voice. No, it seemed to drum through the walls with the rumbling thunder, deep and soft as velvet.

The blonde witch, without quite knowing why, straightened her back. She took a long breath. She did not turn, but instead watched the candle beside the bed. "It is rude to intrude upon a witch's work."

The long flame flickered briefly, as though in a wind that could not be felt. The voice remained as it was, soft as a shroud, heavy as the weight of centuries, and yet there was a certain note of amusement. "Forgive my rudeness, good witch."

"You're not forgiven," Myrna continued. Her voice shook, but it was loud. Louder than his. "You were not invited here, and I have work to do."

The very air around her felt afraid to stir. The weight of his words seemed to freeze it in place. "I need no invitation to enter a place. All doors open to me."

She could feel the corners of the book biting into her hands as she clutched it. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. _Close your eyes,_ whispered a voice in the back of her mind. _Turn your head away, and pretend you heard nothing, and none need ever know._ No one would fault her for it, if they did. It was expected. It was _human_. She was still that, even beneath the spells and the potions. She was still mortal, with a mortal's innate dread of the end.

She took a breath, ignoring the voice, ignoring the sickness curdling in the back of her throat. She still kept her eyes trained straight ahead, but she could not be silent. "Then you can go elsewhere. This is my charge. I'm healing him. His family asked me to."

"I am afraid not." Darkness shifted in the corner of her eye. What had seemed to be merely the faint outline of some piece of furniture now moved to stand beside the sleeping man's bed, opposite of Myrna.

She did what she was told. She kept her eyes on the candle. But that did not mean she had to take this sitting down. "No!" Myrna leapt to her feet, slamming the book down on the nightstand. Somehow, the man beside her did not wake. Somehow, the candle did not flicker. She glared down at the small point of light. "I did the spell right! He will recover! He is my charge and you will not take him!"

"The decision is not yours, I'm afraid." The note of finality could be heard in the voice. There was no evidence of surprise at her outburst, or even hesitation.

"No, it is yours. You can choose to leave him with me and come back another day."

"I have heard that it is bad luck to bargain with death."

Myrna let out a sharp laugh. "Too late to worry about that, I'm afraid. I'm in the wrong business for luck."

"I do not require your approval."

"And yet, here you are. Still arguing with me instead of taking what you're here for and departing." She paused, and frowned a little at the candle's flame. In her peripheral vision, the shadow had not moved from its place beside the bed. She was tempted, so tempted, to turn her head then. "Do you talk to them? When you take them?"

In the stillness, she could hear her own heartbeat, still drumming madly in her ears, joining the percussive rapping of rain on the windowpane. If the entity breathed, she was sure she would have heard him take a long breath. "No. It is not like that."

"Pity. You must not have many people you can talk to, then."

Something felt different, this time, when he paused. She could almost feel his eyes on her, studying her. The candle's flame wavered uncertainly. "You are a very strange witch."

"Yes."

"He is not even your family. You do not know him."

"He is my responsibility. I don't abandon my responsibility."

"Even knowing that I could just as well take another in his place?"

Myrna stood to her full height. She looked down at the candle's steady flame. She spread her arms out wide, her long sleeves a sharp slice of color in the darkness. "Go ahead, then."

The candle flickered.

The old man's children would later comment to one another how pale the young witch looked when she descended the stairs. White, like she had seen a ghost. How dazed she seemed, when they urgently pushed gifts of fresh bread and preserves into her arms as thank you. Perhaps this new witch was as flighty as she looked. A pity the old one had to leave them.

Still, when they checked on their father, they found him sleeping soundly, his breathing untroubled, a candle by his bed burning low.

***

Myrna stomped through the woods, or she tried to. Despite the thick trees overhead, the long night of rain had left the ground thoroughly waterlogged, so that every stomp came out more as a wet squelch. Still, she tried her best to let her fury be known to the woods at large. The woods, obligingly, refrained from catching at her hair with spindly branches, or from placing too many roots in her path. She was a witch, after all, and moreover, she was _their_ witch.

How dare he? What did it matter that he was some immortal entity? It gave him no right! No right at all!

The trees groaned around her in the shifting wind, their hollow sound reminding her of his voice. Myrna snarled, swinging her lantern furiously as she walked, which cast strange shadows all around. How dare he have a voice that shuddered still through her bones, no matter how fast she walked or how the rain tried to mute all sound by whispering on the leaves overhead? Even now she could hear its parting comments to her.

_"You may have bought him a day or a year. All are the same to me. I cannot tell you when next I visit his side."_

_"That is one more day or year than he had. I am satisfied with that."_

_"Then perhaps, before I visit again, you might remember to give him the marshmallow root as you planned."_

_Forgetting her instructions, forgetting etiquette, forgetting safety, she rounded on him. "I did not forget--!"_

_She was staring at empty air, and a rain-splattered window. Beside her, the candle flame glowed and swayed._

Was he mocking her? Treating her like some kind of imbecile? Like she was--what? Not a proper witch? Just a girl in a silly hat carrying a book filled with someone else's words?

Myrna stomped over a ridge, but some of the fight had already gone out of her. Overhead, the clouds were finally starting to tatter like worn clothing, and moonlight was starting to glint through the ragged edges.

The wind brought a cry to her ears. Myrna paused, her anger forgotten, listening. The woods sent her a second cry, mournful and pathetic. She stepped off the path to follow it. The woods, somehow, cleared the way for her.

She paused in a clearing, waiting to hear it again. The light of her lantern glinted off the damp grass, and the shadows of the trees around her seemed to stand taller, a ring of sentries. There was a flash of white beneath the bushes.

"Oh! My, where did you come from?"

The sound of her voice drew it out in hesitant, jerky movements. Eyes that glinted yellow in the darkness watched her warily. It moved closer to her and froze, trembling, on the verge of bolting.

Myrna knelt down, ignoring the horrid feeling of her soaked skirts pressing into her knees, and held out her hand. "Come on, now. You were calling for me, weren't you?"

It drew closer, eyes trained on her, ears swiveling for signs of danger. She could see now that the cat's eyes were green, and that its white fur was matted with rain. Myrna sighed. "Do you want a nice warm house or do you want to stay out in the rain? Because I'm done with the rain, myself. Tell you what, I think those farmers gave me some sausage to take home. Would you like some of that?" She pulled open her bag and started digging through it. "Though really, anything must be better than--" she froze. She pulled her hand out and looked at the jar it had landed on. The label said, in neat script, "marshmallow root." Its contents were untouched.

Swallowing back her tears, Myrna looked again at the white cat. "Let's have that sausage at home, shall we? Do cats drink ale? Because I think I could use some."

Somehow, the white cat seemed to have lost its fear. It trotted up to her side and butted its head against her arm. Myrna wiped at her face. "You know, you're the wrong color for a familiar. Let's be wrong together."

***

The storm stalked away in the night, leaving behind a too-bright morning that the lacy curtains on Myrna's bedroom window were helpless to push back. After uselessly trying to bury herself beneath her blankets to capture a few more minutes of sleep, Myrna finally threw them to the floor in frustration.

She glared around at the room at large. It was cozy to the point of stuffy, the kind of room one would expect to find a very old lady in. Everything old and mismatched but lovingly cared for over the years. The bed small but comfortable, piled high with cushions. More shelves, reaching all the way to the ceiling like the ones in the front room, stuffed with books and trinkets and decades of gifts from nearby villagers who were either very grateful or merely thought that it never hurt to keep a witch happy.

She had not touched the books or the trinkets, or the curtains she hated so much. She had slept in this bed for months now, and yet she still treated it as though its owner might return any day.

_But that's me,_ she thought. As though she had to remind herself that the bed, the books, the curtains, were all hers.

An old ache threatened to worm its way up Myrna's throat. She sat up abruptly, jarring it from its place, and pushed herself off the bed. The curtains were thrown open, the discarded blankets gathered into a bundle and piled back onto the mattress, and with an about-face, Myrna marched herself down to the kitchen in search of tea.

She found the cat exactly where he had staked his claim the night before on the small mat by the fireplace. Myrna had always considered that particular mat a rather hideous color, so he could have at it. He made a sleepy noise as she stepped over him to reach for the kettle.

"You've certainly settled in," she muttered, as she made her way into the kitchen.

The house did not have a kitchen, exactly. Or it had a very large kitchen, depending on how one defined a kitchen. If a witch is highly valued by her neighbors, then she need not often concern herself with simple matters of cooking. Gifts of food tended to appear of their own volition. As such, whatever might have been a kitchen at one time appeared to have evolved for other purposes. Cupboards were filled with neat rows of glass jars. Bundles of the herbs that would later fill them were strung up from the ceiling, a neat paper label tied to each. The counters had been converted to an arcane laboratory of sorts, crowded with mortars and pestles, scales for weighing ingredients, candles and crystals of all sizes and colors.

There was a perfectly functional wood stove, but using it meant trying to remove the enormous cauldron from on top of it. Instead, she filled the kettle and returned to the main fireplace. The white cat finally lifted his head to watch her with bright green eyes as she stoked the embers and began to pile fresh wood over them.

"My friend had a cat," she told him conversationally. "A pure black one. Everyone tried to tell her that was unlucky, but she refused to give it up for anything." The fresh wood began to smoke, and flames sprung to life, eagerly licking along its surface. "When I came here, I thought how perfectly that cat would fit in this house. She was made for a place like this. But here you are, instead." Myrna lifted the heavy kettle and hung it carefully over the fire. "Looking like you belong on the lap of a princess. You'd like that, wouldn't you? A lacey pillow to sit on, your meals served in a silver dish."

The cat sat up, shook himself, and began to wash his paw. Myrna sighed. "Should have gotten something that can talk back. I wonder if any of the local crows would be interested."

The bookshelves loomed before Myrna, a solid wall of information collected throughout what must have been a lifetime. She had been slowly picking away at the edges of it, trying to glean what she could about cough remedies and poultices and the like. That was most of what the old witch Samthann specialized in, before she left. Herbs and remedies to heal, to ease pain. But surely, in all of these books, collected and written and assembled throughout a lifetime (and how long was that lifetime? Myrna had never asked, and Samthann had never offered), there was something to explain the events of last night. What was the nature of the being she faced? Did she really do something so brazen as argue with Death?

More importantly, did Death have a sense of humor, or did she imagine it?

Myrna started at the top, scrambling up the shelves like a ladder and pulling stacks of books down to flip through haphazardly. As she expected, most of what she found were encyclopedic entries of ailments and remedies, or herbs and how best to grow or find them. Sprinkled throughout, though, were scraps of advice for warding off entities more powerful than a mere fever. The entry for St. John's wort recommended its use both for elevating mood and for undoing harmful magics. The one for blemishes suggested ruling out the interference of jealous Fae by touching the afflicted area with iron implements.

And then there was Death. How powerful Death was, for good and ill. The hand of a dead person could remove the illness from one still living, and yet the gaze of a corpse being carried from its home could draw others in the family to follow it. A candle used at a funeral could be used to remove burns.

But what was Death? If Death could be predicted, or tricked, or outsmarted, was it not, in some way, a person? What sort of person was it? Would it be better if it were some faceless entity? Would it be worse if it were a Fae?

Myrna shuddered at that last thought. Far worse, if death were a Fae.

Hours later, and stacks of books crowded the floor around Myrna's chair. She and the white cat had consumed their breakfast of cold sausages, bread, and apples before her search finally brought her something. The book was called, "On the Natural Forces."

Here were the gods and the Fae, the spirits and the ghosts. "Hey cat," Myrna said, flopping down into her chair with the book open. "There's a chapter on moon deities in here. Should I name you after the moon since you're so pale?"

The cat flicked his ear, a response that could really be interpreted in multiple ways. Myrna left the moon chapter behind for the time being. The entry on Death was long and complex, for what healer was not deeply concerned about the nature of death?

  


"Wait…" Myrna muttered, after skimming through several pages on the topic. "These don't make any sense! The stories all contradict each other!" From across the room, the white cat paused in his post-breakfast washing to blink at her with keen green eyes. Myrna huffed. "I'm serious! Look, there's one story where Death is a Fae, but there's another one where Death was a human prince who was cursed. And some of them make it sound like Death has always been the same, but other ones make it sound like the job gets passed from person to person, or like every village has its own local death spirit. And that's only the stories from around here. Augh." She sat back, frustrated. "All that searching, and there isn't even a clear answer? This is why I hate books."

The cat went back to washing himself. The sunbeams pushing through the curtains had grown shorter as the sun climbed overhead, and the fire had burned to low embers. On the page that sat open in Myrna's lap, a rough sketch of what must have been Death looked out ominously from beneath a black cloak, scythe in hand. The face was covered, but long white hair was just visible beneath the edge of the hood. Beneath the illustration was the caption: **The Ankou**.

Myrna snapped the book closed. "Juniper haircap!" she announced to the cat. "I need to make that rash treatment, and it called for juniper haircap. Let's take a walk, shall we?"

  


***

The rain had left behind spongey damp ground, though much of the path had dried out in the crisp morning light. The cat walked with Myrna in the way that cats do--trotting ahead with tail held high like a flagpole, darting after squirrels up trees, re-emerging from the underbrush with the pleased look of a predator that has successfully terrorized the smaller fauna. The white cat never simply walked beside her, but he never quite let her out of his sight, either.

Myrna halfheartedly pushed aside undergrowth as she slowly walked, searching for the spiny plant. In truth, she had only a rough idea of what juniper haircap was for, and had already forgotten which recipe she had been attempting to learn when she spotted it. Her mind was on candles and shadows, and forgotten jars of marshmallow root.

She walked for hours. Not altogether unproductively, as it turned out. There were some herbs she knew on sight now, that once spotted, became easier to distinguish from the other foliage crowding the marshy forest floor. Only when the hem of her skirt was thoroughly muddied did she begin to feel better.

The trees shuddered overhead, carrying with them a cry, as they did the night before. But this was not the mournful wail of a wet cat in search of shelter. This was a cry of agony.

Myrna hiked up her skirts and ran, the forest whipping past her as easily as though the very trees stepped aside to allow her passage.

She found it alone, no sign of the hunter that had tried to bring it down. Still trying to stumble on wobbly legs. She paused at the edge of the clearing, still panting from her run. Deer were so much larger in real life than in her imagination. The white of its eyes was visible as it looked around frantically, its antlers dipping as though preparing to charge.

It saw her. Myrna froze, her chest burning with the untaken breaths it craved.

The deer raised its head and released another cry. Its throat was matted with blood, an arrow embedded deep into its flesh. Slowly, it bowed its crowned head, and folded itself onto the ground.

Myrna finally inhaled, slowly. She felt the trees still above her as she stepped forward. The creature did not react when she knelt beside it. A single eye watched her, wild and knowing.

She felt him before she saw him. A chill on the back of her neck. She waited. The deer's labored breathing filled the seconds.

"Well?" she finally muttered sharply. "Don't you have a job to do?"

Somewhere nearby, a crow called. It was daylight still, and yet somehow in the corner of her eye there existed a shadow that had not been there before. She stared down at the arrow shaft, at the dark blood that painted the wood.

"Are you not going to demand this life as well?" His voice was soft, still. So soft that it could have been lost beneath the trees' whispers, if the trees had not gone silent.

Myrna realized her fingernails were digging into her palms. "Would you mock me at a time like this?"

"No." The voice said it so flatly that some of her anger was tempered immediately by its coldness. "I only wonder what fate brings you to stand in my path twice in such a brief time."

"Well," her eyes flickered close, so tantalizingly close, to that shadow, trying to gauge a face she could not see. "I'm a witch, aren't I?"

Nor could she understand the brief pause that followed her statement. "Indeed," the deep voice finally said.

The animal let out a pained sound, and Myrna laid her hand on its flank. Its fur was soft, she realized. "Please," she whispered. "The arrow is deep. I cannot do anything for it. End its suffering."

She did not see the shadow move. And yet, somehow, another hand was laid upon the deer's shoulder.

Myrna did not look away as the deer shuddered with its last breaths. "It's almost over now," she promised it. "The pain will pass and you'll wake up somewhere full of grass and flowers and pretty lady deer and there won't be any hunters and…" She trailed off as the creature went still.

The hand still rested on the creature's flank beside hers. It was gloved in black, masking any features that would betray what the thing it belonged to would be like. After a moment, it slid away.

"Wait," Myrna whispered. The hand had disappeared from her view, but the shadow in the corner of her eye remained. Waiting.

She had already broken half the taboos every grandmother warned of by acknowledging him. By arguing with him. The Ankou. The bringer of death.

And so far, he had not struck her down where she stood for her brazenness.

"Thank you," she said. "For offering mercy twice."

In the silence that followed her statement, the trees rustled overhead. The world was still breathing, even if she was not.

Finally, she heard his voice again. "You are welcome, good witch."

"Myrna." She stood then, and turned fully around to face the shadow.

The drawing in Samthann's book had not been entirely inaccurate. There was the black cloak, like shadows given form, tattered and ever-moving. There was the hood, pulled up over his face. Long hair spilled from it, bone-white.

She had half-expected the rest of him to be bone, too.

Instead what she saw were grey eyes set in a proud face. Skin that was tanned, that must have known the sun once, that must have known warmth. He stared at her a moment. And then the Ankou inclined his head. "Myrna."

Suddenly, unbidden, a smile tugged at Myrna's face. "Good. Take care, then. I hope to see you again."

She turned away first, back to the edge of the clearing, where the cat was sunning himself on a broken tree stump. He watched, unperturbed, as Myrna made her way back to him. When she glanced back behind her, she was not surprised to find the Ankou had gone.

"Well then, little moon cat," Myrna said, digging through her pockets to make sure she had not lost the day's herbs when she went running through the woods. "Shall we?"

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minako = Myrna  
> Setsuna = Samthann  
> Kunzite = The Ankou


	2. Chapter 2

The next visitor who approached the witch's house did so in the day, when the little crooked doorway with its moss-caked frame could be seen in the late August sunlight. She knocked politely, entirely unlike the urgent pounding that rang out against the door some nights prior. 

The visitor glanced over the entrance as she waited. The garden had become overgrown since her last visit, but it was dotted with bright, cheerful flowers. The flowers did suit the cottage well, but the visitor frowned to herself. It was quite a delicate face that she frowned with, keen blue eyes inspecting the foliage at her feet. She wore a very plain, practical dress beneath a well worn cloak, and her dark hair was cropped neatly at the nape of her neck. Odd, she thought to herself. She had always known Samthann to fill her garden with herbs, regardless of their beauty. The wildflowers seemed to have taken up residence despite their lack of useful properties.

It was then, as she contemplated the practicality of flowers, that the visitor heard an explosion that shook the stone sidewalk beneath her feet and rattled the window panes. 

The door swung open easily when she tried it, and she was met immediately with a cloud of smoke that swirled around her and stung her eyes. Amhra covered her mouth with the corner of her cloak and tried to peer inside. "Hello? Is everything alright?"

"Stop laughing Artemis! I did so get the ratio right, I just got the steps mixed up!"

Amhra pressed forward a few more steps, waving her arm uselessly in front of her face to try to clear the smoke from her path. When she reached what she remembered to be the kitchen, she found a peculiar sight. A blonde woman on her knees, bent over what was now no longer a functional pot, which was leaking liquid all over the floor and smearing the carefully-drawn sigil beneath it. On the counter, a white cat seemed not to at all mind the smoke billowing up into its face. Indeed, it was cheerfully meowing down at the blonde, as if rather enjoying her predicament. 

"Are you quite alright?" Amhra managed to cough out. 

The blonde startled at her voice. "Oh shoot. You're not here for the tonic, are you? It won't be ready for…" she stared down at the quickly-dissipating liquid. "It's going to be a while more."

"No, I'm… " Amhra gave up on trying to communicate through the thick smoke, and crossed the kitchen to open a window. The blonde caught on, between the two of them, they soon had all the doors and windows open and a crisp breeze sweeping the smoke out. Amhra glanced around at the rapidly clearing cottage, and saw that though the inside of the cottage had not changed very much since her last visit, some things had. The countertop was more cluttered, and some of the less used jars, previously kept immaculately clean, had started to gather dust. And there was this cat, and no sign of Samthann. 

"I'm sorry, I was looking for the witch. Are you her new apprentice?"

The blonde had been busily trying to sweep the smoke out the window with a rag. She gave Amhra a blank look. "I am the witch now. Is there something you need?"

"But… where is Samthann?"

"Gone. Traveling. She didn't say."

Amhra sighed. "Oh dear. I was hoping to discuss my research about the use of glovewort as a pox remedy. She and I used to exchange so many herbs."

The new witch was looking her over, as if trying to figure her out. "You're the physician. The one who's been gone."

"Oh yes, that's me. I'm Amhra."

"Myrna. Well... would you like some tea? I'm not Samthann, but I could actually use some advice about herbs."

Amhra was relieved when the new witch served her tea in the living room instead of the still-smokey kitchen. "So your cat's name is Artemis? Like the Greek goddess of the moon?"

"I found him on a very dark night," Myrna said, as she carried the kettle over. She was clumsy with it, spilling loose tea on the countertop and sloshing the kettle as she hung it in the fireplace, but she seemed not to notice. "And he looks like a moon when he curls up in a ball to sleep. So, physician. The villagers were very concerned by your absence. They said you normally pass through town quite regularly, and you are rarely late."

Amhra felt a pang of guilt. "I know, I hate to have been delayed for so long. I had hoped that with Samthann here, my absence might not be felt quite as keenly."

Myrna grimaced as she sat in the chair opposite of Amhra. The cat alighted on the chair's back and sat down over her shoulder, looking like a gargoyle surveying the room. "I suppose nobody quite planned for my presence. But if you don't mind me asking, what has kept you?"

"Ah. I'm afraid the royal family requested my services, to see to the princess."

Myrna, turned away to reach for the kettle, glanced sharply back at Amhra. There was an unguarded alarm in her eyes. "The princess? Is she ill? Has something happened?"

Amhra raised her eyebrows at the outburst. Certainly, any loyal subject would be troubled to learn of an illness befalling any of the royal family, but the note of distress in Myrna's voice took her aback. "She was ill. Taken by some unexplained weakness for weeks. Other physicians summoned before me could not find a remedy. But she was much better when I last saw her. I am still not certain whether the cause of her improvement was the change in her diet that I ordered, or the verbena tea. I had hoped to discuss my findings with Samthann, to gather her opinion."

Myrna sagged against her chair, looking at once relieved and somehow sad. She finished preparing the tea in silence. The cat had stretched out to fill the entire length of the chair's back, and was washing a paw contemplatively. Amhra let her gaze wander around the cabin, along the spines of handwritten books that neatly lined the shelves. Something hung above the mantle that she did not recall being there before. It was a sword, gilded in polished silver and gold. She had only ever seen a sword like that carried by the knights who walked the corridors of the castle she had just departed.

"You know," Amhra said carefully, "when I was there, the princess confided that she was sad, as well. She said that someone very dear to her had left her, and she did not understand why."

Myrna reached for Artemis without looking at him, her hand absently seeking out the softness of his fur to stroke rhythmically. He quietly tolerated this, despite the interruption to his bathing ritual. "I'm sure any who would leave the company of the princess is sadder by far."

She released Artemis from her attention, then pushed herself brusquely out of her chair. "You said verbena?" She went to the bookshelf, and started pulling out books haphazardly, flipping through them before setting them down on any surface nearby. Amhra was starting to understand why the witch's cabin was so disorderly these days.

***

Her mother always said that if she saw a funeral procession, she must follow it for at least four steps. Myrna wondered whether her mother had anticipated the black pointed hat she would be wearing when this happened, and the nervous glances it would bring. There were certain times when people preferred not to see a witch in their midst. A witch at a funeral was a suspicious thing. 

So she waited as it passed, in the tall grass by the side of the road. Part of her expected to see a black cloak following behind the wagon, but the shadows remained as they were. Of course--his part had already been done. It made her remember the little cemetery outside of the village. And so she waited until the last of the mourners had departed, to approach the gate.

She had seen cemeteries before--locked behind towering, elaborate iron gates, filled with fountains and statues and mausoleums that were like tiny palaces unto themselves. Here, the gate was waist-height, and of aged wood, no different from the sort a farmer would install. There were no fountains or monuments. Graves were marked with simple stones or wood markers, or sometimes little more than some scattered wildflowers. The ground was uneven, and overgrown in places. 

Artemis hopped up on a fence post, weather-worn and overgrown with moss, as she pushed the gate open and entered. She was not without pretense: she had brought a bag with her, and thick leather gloves. She strolled around the perimeter, toward the side where the graves were older and the grass taller. 

It was near dusk when she flopped down onto the grass with her bag of freshly-picked stinging nettles. She peeled her leather gloves off, discarding them in the grass, and leaned back against a fence post. A murder of crows passed noisily overhead, calling to each other with their dry voices.

It was mere moments before she heard his voice. 

"Odd place to be picking herbs, isn't it?"

Myrna could not help the grin that tugged at her lips. She looked up into the clouds, streaked with pink and golden light with the sunset. "Nettles picked in a graveyard have special healing properties. Didn't you know that?"

"I was not aware."

"Hm. I thought you would know all about that sort of thing."

"I don't tend to make it my business."

"Don't spend much time in graveyards?"

"Why should I? My work is done before they ever arrive here."

"Is work all that you do, though? Or do you ever just stop?" Her question was met with silence, and Myrna glanced down at her side, where a tree leaned over the fence above her. Perhaps it was the growing gloom, but the shadows beneath the branches seemed thicker than they should have been. "Come on, don't you want to know about the nettles?"

She refused to turn away this time, as the shadows congealed into solid form. A cloak of pure darkness, shifting at the edges as though it could flutter away in the breeze. A hand emerged from the black void and pushed back the hood, revealing the shock of long white hair. He looked at her expectantly. 

"Can you always do that?" she asked. "Or do you need the veil between realms to be thin, like it is in graveyards, or when something dies?"

"Yes, I can."

"Why don't you, then?"

"I thought the plan was for you to tell me about the nettles."

Myrna waved a dismissive hand. "We'll get to that." 

"What purpose could I possibly have in appearing other than when necessary?"

Myrna shrugged. "I don't know. To enjoy a nice sunset with a pretty girl?" The blank look he gave her made her burst out laughing. "Gods, you don't get many offers like that, do you?"

"Not particularly, no."

"That's a pity. A face like yours, and nobody ever gets to see it."

His blank look persisted, pale eyes studying her as if she were a puzzle he could solve. 

Myrna settled her skirts around herself neatly. "I've been reading about you, you know."

"About me? That must have been profoundly boring."

  


  


"Only there are so many contradictory stories. They can't all be true."

"You're quite confident of that?"

"For one thing, you can't have been the most recent person in the village to die. Or else I'd be talking to that guy." She gestured across the graveyard at the newly-turned mound of dirt. 

"Are you sure? Perhaps I am him, wearing a different face."

Myrna considered this. "Hmm, no. I'd know."

"Would you? Did you know him well?"

"No. But I know you well."

His eyebrows raised at that. "Alright," he granted. "What other theories have you entertained?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "There are variations on that one. One story says it's not the most recently dead, but the most recently buried." She tilted her head at him. "I don't need to worry about you vanishing at midnight or something, do I?"

"Are you planning on talking until midnight?"

"We'll see. I like to keep my options open. Anyway, I think you've been doing this a long time."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because you have no idea what to do when a pretty girl talks to you. Or were you like this in life, too?"

"You assume I was ever alive."

"Well of course you were."

"You're certain? I'm sure some of those stories say that the Ankou is merely a Fae, not a human at all."

"I think you're too kind to be Fae."

"You sound like you speak from experience."

For once, it was she who was silenced by his words, her gaze drifting down to regard the nettles in her lap. He waited, but she did not respond further than that.

"Have I offended you?" The way that he said it was so soft, so concerned.

A smile crossed her lips again, and she looked up at him. "See? You have the sort of kindness that only mortality brings."

Myrna liked to imagine that it was the ghost of a blush that she detected on his cheeks, and not the fading orange light. It was difficult to tell, with his expressionless face. "I am at a disadvantage. I have no books to read about your life."

She leaned back against the rickety fence, which creaked a little from the pressure. "What is there to know? I am a witch. I do all the things that are expected of a witch."

"And were you always a witch?"

"Always," she said slowly, tasting the word. "When a person becomes a witch, she ceases to be anything else. So in that way, who I am began when I became a witch. So that means I have always been a witch. There could be nothing before that. But I have not been myself for very long."

His forehead crinkled as he followed the labyrinthine path her words led him down. "And what led you to become a witch?"

"The fact that I look so good in hats." She grinned, flicking the brim of her own pointed hat. 

"Are you playing coy because I cannot answer your questions?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "Or maybe there are words that I cannot say, just like you. How about this? When one of us figures out the other's past, they have to reveal their own as well. It's only fair."

He considered. "Did you not just say that there are words that cannot be said? I think that interferes with your little deal."

Myrna drummed her fingers on her lap, looking hard at Artemis. He was crouched on top of a grave marker, watching the early evening moths emerge from their slumber. Suddenly she pulled the hat off her head, and started untying the broad silk ribbon from its brim. When she had freed it and unraveled it to its full length, she held out one end to him. "Here."

He stared down at the gauzy red silk in her hand. "What is this for?"

"We'll make a pact. And then we will have to tell each other our secrets when the time comes, no matter what powers prevented us before."

His grey eyes lifted to meet hers, and so long did they remain unblinking that she felt a shiver at the reminder of what small signs of life he did not exude. "You want to make a pact with Death?" 

She laughed. "Only for Death to keep me company sometimes. Come on, it's such a basic ritual that even I can't forget the steps."

A moment more he stared at her, like he could not make sense of her or the things that she said. And yet, his hand opened to her. She took his hand in hers, and it was--cold. Not like a corpse, exactly. It was like touching a porcelain cup. This comparison comforted her, because, well, porcelain is only cold until it is held. He watched with interest as she looped the silk around his hand and tied a loose knot. Then she picked up the remaining silk and did the same around her own hand. Their bound hands could be held only inches apart then, with what was left of the silk stretched tight between them, as she said the incantations. 

"A knot for thee,  
A knot for me,  
And secrets unspoken between us makes three.  
When truth doth fall from thy lips or mine,  
Three knots undone;  
My secrets be thine."

There in the small graveyard that was still warm with the fading orange sunset, watched over only by a white cat and a few stray moths, the witch made her pact with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minako = Myrna  
> Kunzite = The Ankou  
> Setsuna = Samthann  
> Ami = Amhra


	3. Chapter 3

The Ankou frowned at his surroundings. There was much to frown at. For one thing, said surroundings were moving. They lurched and groaned steadily back and forth, a gentle rocking that could only be from a passenger ship. The room he found himself in was small, but lavishly decorated. The sort of room one reserves for a respected passenger. A grand window revealed the sea, turned to rose gold hues with the setting sun.

There was one occupant in the cabin, aside from the Ankou (who never really considered himself an occupant of any room). A young man with hair as black as the cloak the Ankou shrouded himself in lounged on the small bed, looking for all the world as regal as a king. A goblet sat on a stool beside him. On a little writing desk, amidst letters and books and candles, two more goblets sat waiting beside the remaining bottle of wine, and a small vial. The two goblets on the desk were empty. The one beside him still had a few remaining drops, yet. 

The young man sat up at his approach with a smile filled with mirth that reached all the way into his blue eyes. "My friend. Come have a drink with me."

The Ankou picked up the goblet and sniffed its contents. The familiar smell was there, beneath the wine. "Was this really necessary?"

"When you refuse to visit on your own, what choice do I have? Come on, hand me that bottle."

"Not taking poison, for one." Despite his complaints, the Ankou picked up the bottle, and traded the tainted goblet for the two clean ones, and dutifully handed them over. 

The young man poured out each cup carefully. His hands shook, the Ankou noticed. Lingering effects from a death unachieved. "But how else can I pull you away from the no doubt delightful task of ferrying the dead?"

The Ankou accepted his goblet. "There is no ferry involved. If Charon exists, I am not him."

"Pity. At least Charon gets payment for his deeds."

"Is that why you have called me onto a boat? Where are you, exactly?"

He threw an arm behind his head and leaned back against the wall, taking a sip of his wine. A normal person might be put off by it, after tasting it mixed with poison, but he drank it with careless ease. "Where else? On my way to see my lady love, of course."

The flat look that the Ankou gave him was as close to an eyeroll as he would ever perform. He took a sip of wine he could not taste, out of respect for the one who poured it for him. "Another? Has it been so long since you left behind your queen down in the south, Endymion?"

Endymion, who was not above facial expressions, actually did roll his eyes. "Please, that was decades ago now. Have you truly lost all sense of time? And I did not leave her behind. We parted amicably after many years of companionship. Her eldest was starting to look older than me when I finally took my leave."

"And who is this one, then? Another king or queen, grateful for your service?"

The tender smile that crossed Endymion's features made him look positively boyish. It was a wonder, that he could still look so young, his heart still soft and loving and open. Only the deep blue of his eyes betrayed his age, nearly a match for the Ankou's. "A princess. One like none I've ever met. I tried to stay away, but I am like a fish on a hook. She draws me back with a force I cannot overcome."

The Ankou waded through the overly flowery language to find the hidden confession within it. "Tried to stay away. Stay away from where?"

Endymion had enough shame left in him to look sheepish, his already dark face coloring slightly more. "Just a small, backwater kingdom."

The Ankou cast a glance around the interior of the room on the ship, which was steadily making its way toward its destination. He took in the collection of trinkets from the Mediterranean Sea, souvenirs of a warmer climate to present to the princess in question. He noted the heavy cloak set aside in preparation of dreary, wet weather. 

The Ankou hardly ever showed his emotion on his face, yet now his hand rose so that he could bury his face in it. "Endymion…"

"It will be a quick trip. I promise."

"You are _banished._ "

"Nobody will know."

The Ankou dropped his hand, and looked directly at him. "I can't protect you if you're found. You know that, right?"

"I'll be careful."

"Of all the princesses in the world, you had to find one in the one place you cannot set foot. Is she really worth your life?"

Endymion spread his hands, holding his wine aloft. His face was perfectly tranquil, his smile still perfectly warm. He had long determined the answer to that question. "Yes. That, and more."

The Ankou set his goblet down, still nearly full. He had only consumed what he had out of politeness anyway. He stood, and the blackness of his cloak seemed to unfurl in the small room, tendrils of black drifting up the walls like wisps of smoke. "At least give me time to determine what sort of rat's nest you are stepping into before you land."

Endymion reached across the space between them, and took the Ankou's hand in his. "If that would comfort you, then of course. I promise I will not endanger myself needlessly, my friend."

The Ankou regarded the hand holding his. "You could start by refraining from consuming any more poison."

A small smirk tugged at Endymion's mouth. "I will agree to do so, if you bother visiting more often."

The Ankou said nothing as the darkness gathered around him and plucked him from the swaying room. He only squeezed the hand that held his a little harder.

  


***

A sharp crack rang out across the garden. The yellowing leaves of the trees that leaned into the yard shuddered with the sound, some of them taking the shock as a sign to make an early break for the ground below. Wasps briefly inspected the scene with scattered interest, before returning to the blackberry bush. 

Another crack. A wooden post shuddered with the impact. 

Myrna inspected her work. Sloppy. She returned to her beginning stance, allowing muscle memory to settle her into place. She closed her eyes and focused on her breaths, on the way her knees were bent, on the way the wooden sword in her hand felt too rough after months of disuse had allowed all the calluses on her hands to soften. 

She sprang forward without opening her eyes, felt the sword swing in a clean arc as she moved. A third crack shuddered through the garden. She opened her eyes to find the wooden blade level with the mark she had made in the post. 

And behind the post, standing so close that, had she misstepped, she may have struck him instead, stood the Ankou. 

The squeak of surprise that left Myrna's throat sounded very unlike the sort of sound that one would make during sword practice. "You ought to warn people before sneaking up like that! Are you so eager to spend time with me that you've resorted to attempts to frighten me to death?"

"My apologies. I was given the impression by your practice that you were prepared to fight off any intruder. Is this a common pastime for a witch?"

Myrna allowed the sword's dull blade to dip. "Not so common, no." She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. It was early in the morning still, and she had hoped that no one would be around to see her indulge herself in this. The sword dropped to her side, and she found it in her to muster something lighthearted to say. "But you are unexpected. Don't tell me I squished some poor spider with that last hit."

"I can promise that you did not induce my presence through sacrifice of a life, spider or otherwise."

"Well that's a relief. So… you came here yourself? By your own will?"

The corner of his mouth twitched a little. "Did you think I was bound only to appear when summoned? I did tell you that no doors are locked to me."

"Well then." She cast her eyes around the overgrown garden. How did one entertain an undead entity? A little table and chair sat beneath the hawthorn tree, where Samthann used to sometimes sit with her books. "Would you like to sit down?"

He dipped his head in a graceful nod. It occurred to her that he probably had no need to sit at all. He could probably stand in one place for eternity and not feel the difference. "Please, do not let me interrupt your practice. You seemed to be enjoying it before I intruded." 

She threw him a glance. "Did I? Funny, I used to think of this as just work."

The Ankou sat in the dainty little garden chair, and he looked exactly as out of place in it as Myrna could imagine. The black shroud that fell from his shoulders seemed to envelope the area immediately around him in tattered shadow. "And now it is not?"

Myrna lifted the wooden sword again, holding it in both hands. "Work has a purpose. This is… indulgence."

"You seem to be missing your hat today."

She smirked as she took her stance again. "Didn't match the sword."

It should have felt strange to have him watching her as she went through the practiced moves. She had been so embarrassed to be caught at it, but now that she was falling into a rhythm again, it felt natural to have slate grey eyes trace her movement. She almost forgot he was there, until she completed her set and saw him staring at the leaves strewn across the little table. 

"Are you alright? You seem distracted."

The Ankou's eyes slid to hers. "My apologies. I suppose I am."

"What sorts of troubles does Death have? Are there underworld politics I am not aware of?"

"Not as such, no."

"I have more stories about your origin. But I suppose you would not be able to comment on their accuracy."

The Ankou took a breath and looked at her. "How about a different sort of story?"

Myrna paused, eyeing the Ankou carefully. He had never volunteered information before. This, like his appearing without invitation in her garden, was entirely new. She crossed the yard, boots crunching on the first fallen leaves of autumn, and came to sat down across from him, laying her wooden practice sword across the dainty little table. "Please," she prompted, folding her arms over the sword. "Tell me this story."

His pale eyes met hers from beneath his dark hood. "Have you read the story of the wanderer king?"

Myrna shook her head. She wanted to make a joke, ask him how many died in the story, but she feared it might make him cease telling it. 

"It is an old story, now, worn and stretched and faded with its retelling. I'm afraid I cannot quite do justice to its more colorful iterations, but perhaps I can convey the major points. Once, a king of these lands lost the faith of his people. His country suffered through a long draught, and his people concluded that it was their king's failure that brought this blight upon them. He was to be sacrificed."

There's the death, Myrna thought ruefully, but she was transfixed anyway. These were more words than the Ankou had ever spoken at once. He glanced down at her sword, those pale eyes tracing the nicks and grooves worn into the wooden shaft, and she realized what was so different about him from before. He was troubled by something. 

"The night before the king's death was to take place, a stranger appeared to him. The stranger told him to fear not, that he was once a king, and king he was still, and he would take his place on the altar. The king did not wish to die, so he accepted the wanderer king's offer, and in the morning, the wanderer king was killed in his place."

The Ankou reached out and ran his thumb along the sword's dull blade, as if he could feel the cuts it would never give. "The story goes that the kingdom did recover from drought. It was only then, when the country was beginning to prosper again, that the stranger again appeared to the king, alive. He told the king that he was not the first whose debt he had paid, and he would not be the last. Terrified, but still grateful for his life, the king foisted riches upon the wanderer king, as many as he could carry, and begged him to leave at once. And away the wanderer king went, drifting from land to land. A king with no throne. A life without end."

Myrna stared at the Ankou, waiting for some sort of punchline or moral or summary, but there was none. He stared silently back, awaiting her response. "That's it?" she finally asked.

"In essence, yes."

"Why didn't he die?"

"That is not part of this story."

"Did he also have a witch present to shout at you when you tried to take him?"

The Ankou stared at her for a moment before something like amusement softened his eyes. "No. Few are so fortunate."

Myrna drummed her fingers impatiently on the sword. Why was he telling her this story? Was it based on something true, and he was telling her something of himself? Something that contained hints about his origin? Or was it sort of riddle for her to interpret? Myrna hated riddles. 

"You tell this story as though it is a sad thing, but to me it sounds like everyone came out of it satisfied. The first king got to live. The wanderer king got a hefty reward."

"Is it not a sad thing? To suffer for a stranger, be granted only fear and gold in return? Is it not sad that he must leave, in the end? The kingdom prospers by his hand, and he cannot remain to enjoy it. When next he returns, it will be ruled by a different king, and filled with the descendents of the people he once knew."

"You're saying immortality is a bad thing. Worse than death?"

The Ankou tilts his head, considering. "Better or worse, I do not know. It is its own tragedy, as death is its own tragedy, to live forever among those who do not."

Myrna leaned her chin on her hand. "How long have you been immortal? How many lives have passed you by?"

He looked at her, without sadness or pain. Simple acknowledgement. "Too many."

The Ankou did not fidget, but Myrna did. She sat back, adjusted her skirts over her knees. "How much you must despise this wanderer king, then, to leave him to such a fate. How many times have you refused him the end he sought?" 

Still the Ankou did not move, did not blink. "Too many," he said again. 

"And yet," she continued, "I'm sure that other king was glad for his presence. When our lives are short, every chance to extend it is a blessing."

"I suppose," he granted her with a slight incline of the head. "Perhaps blessings and curses are all one in the same."

***

To bring bluebells indoors is to invite death in with them. Myrna smiled wryly to herself as she carefully touched the delicate blue flowers, pressed tissue-thin between the pages of one of Samthann's books. Did the seemingly ageless woman with the dark hair court death as Myrna did, or was it a witch's lack of care for laws that compelled her to save the spring flower? 

He had, in fact, taken to visiting her frequently of late. Not, as one might expect, in the dark of night, emerging as a ghoul from the shadows, but in the warmth of the afternoon, when the light seemed to be growing more golden with the autumn leaves. Myrna would always be busy with something: measuring herbs or copying arcane symbols onto a pot to focus its energies inwards or attempting to decipher Samthann's sometimes overly elaborate handwriting. The Ankou sometimes helped with that, in fact. Myrna had the suspicion that he enjoyed reading more than she did, though he would not say so. 

That was how they would pass their afternoons: Myrna at the counter, freely chatting as she did her work, while the Ankou sat by the fire and listened. Sometimes Artemis came to lay on his lap, a bright white moon curled up in a tattered black void. The Ankou never pet him when he did this, but Myrna could not help but notice that he also never moved to depart until Artemis had moved of his own accord.

The afternoon had long passed now, however. Autumn had brought another stormy night, and Myrna was awake still, restlessly flipping through books by candlelight while the rain beat against the windows. Artemis had claimed his place by the fire to stave off the chill seeping in from beneath the doors. 

The flower had been pressed against the same page that described its properties. Myrna delicately slid it aside to read what Samthann had written. "Bluebell (Endymion non-scriptus) - dry and grind to powder for infections; poisonous when fresh; wear around neck to induce truth. Note: beware of walking through clusters of them when harvesting. Always take from the edges of fields."

  


The entry concluded there, and Myrna groaned. "Don't do it why, Samthann? Don't leave me hanging just when it's getting juicy!"

"What is so juicy?" Myrna did not startle at his voice sounding from the corner of her kitchen, where before there were only stacks of empty jars. For one thing, his voice rarely rose above a gentle murmur. It probed softly into a room, like the scent of ozone accompanying the grumbling thunder outside. 

"Do you know why it's dangerous to walk through a field of bluebells?" She asked as though it was perfectly normal for someone to appear out of thin air. 

"Because the dew will soak the hem of your dress, I expect," the Ankou said smoothly, crossing the kitchen without any sound of footfall. 

"Like that has ever stopped me from walking through anything," Myrna chirped. She moved approximately one inch to the side to invite him to come look at the book with her. Only the one inch. He filled the space accordingly, and so little room was between them that the tattered edges of his cloak brushed cold against her arm. 

"You often speak about this Samthann. Is she someone important?"

"She was the witch of this house before me. She wrote half the books here and was evidently much better at the job than I am. Did you know her?"

His mouth twitched in a way that she was beginning to understand revealed some hint of amusement. She had thought him so expressionless before, but she was learning to see the patterns. "Do you think I spend my time with every witch I encounter?"

Myrna leaned her elbow on the counter, cocking her eyebrow up at him. "No. Just the pretty ones."

He still paused, when she said things like that, like he did not know the correct response. "Only one pretty one, so far. The name does not ring a bell."

"Long dark hair. Ridiculously tall. Apparently ageless, because I could never quite figure out how old she was, yet she had time to do things like write all these books."

"Ah. I may have encountered her once or twice. She is not ageless."

Myrna blinked at him. "Really? How do you know?"

"I know everybody's age."

Myrna put her hands on her hips. "What? That's not fair! A lady's age is supposed to be mysterious!"

The Ankou stepped back from her wrath, spreading his hands helplessly. "I can hardly help it."

Myrna advanced on him, poking him in the chest with her finger. The black shroud of his cloak was like an icy breath against her skin. "But you won't even tell me your age! This imbalance is unjust!"

His eyes were laughing at her, even if his mouth was not. "Forgive me, good witch. I did not mean to cause offence."

Myrna huffed. "Then make it up to me. Tell me one thing I want to know."

The Ankou stared down at her, uncertainty in his pale eyes. The words he could not say were like a palpable weight he bore, bound up in red silk. So many questions that he could not voice an answer to. Being asked only reminded him of his helplessness to say them. 

Myrna's hand didn't leave his chest. She rested it fully against the black cloak, feeling the misty chill of it over the firmness of his chest. She used it to balance herself as she stood up on tiptoe, hardly closing the gap in their heights, but making the effort anyway. Her eyes stayed firmly on his as she leaned in and whispered, "what is your favorite food?"

The Ankou did not react, other than the slight shift in his pale eyes. Uncertainty fading, giving way again to humor. He leaned down, meeting her in the space she could not reach, his forehead nearly touching hers. "I…"

A knock abruptly rang out in the cottage. 

Myrna felt like the floor beneath her had just shuddered with that knock, leaving her dizzy and off-kilter. The Ankou stood upright, away from her. "You have work to do, it seems."

"Always," Myrna sighed. She glanced vaguely around for her hat. People respected the hat. "Other people can't see you, right? You can just prop yourself up on a stool and wait, can't you?"

The Ankou adjusted his cloak, as if it was a mere garment that could be adjusted. "They can't see me, but people do tend to sense something unsettling in my presence. It is, as you might say, bad luck."

"Shame," Myrna sighed again. "You've been nothing but good luck for me." 

If Myrna did not know any better, she would dare to say that she'd made the Ankou blush. He pulled his hood up hurriedly. "Until next time, then."

"You'd better have an answer for me when I see you next!" she called as he vanished from her kitchen. 

Artemis batted at the red silk ribbon on her hat's brim as she picked it up from where it was discarded on the chair beside him and plopped it on her head. Another series of knocks rang out -- polite knocks, but firm ones. The knock of someone who is not easily dismissed. 

And yet, the person who stood soaked on her doorstep was quite unassuming. A young man, tall but slim, who smiled such a warm, open smile at her that it felt like the sun breaking through the late night clouds. "Evening. So sorry to intrude upon you so late, but I saw your lights still on. I don't suppose you could give me shelter until the rain lets up?"

Myrna was not particularly superstitious, but even she knew better than to deny a stranger seeking shelter in the middle of the night. And anyway, she was a witch. She had nothing to fear from a stranger emerging from the dark woods, whatever he was. 

Soon he was warming himself gratefully by her fire, his sack of belongings propped on the floor by the door. In the candlelight his hair was jet black, slicked back now with rainwater. His skin was tanned, speaking of warmer climates. When she handed him a cup of tea, she was stricken by how very blue his eyes were. 

"This is quite a night to be out traveling on your own," she noted, settling down in the chair opposite him. Artemis perched on a bookshelf overhead, eyeing the stranger warily, his tail curled into a question mark. "You're awfully far from the main road." 

The stranger huffed out a laugh as he blew on his tea. "Would you believe I got lost? I thought I knew a direct route to the village, but this forest defies logic. It's been a long time since I've been this way." He glanced at Myrna with a quick, if friendly, assessment. "And you are a witch, I take it? It's been long since I've met one."

"Don't they have them where you come from?"

He considered that, glancing around at her bookshelves, at the sword glimmering over the fireplace. "I would hazard to say that there is something like a witch everywhere you go, but they are not always called that. Priestesses. Shaman. Wise women. That sort of thing."

Myrna raised an eyebrow. "Spinsters?" 

He snorted. "Maybe. Anyway, I know better than to cross you, we'll say that."

It was odd: Myrna wanted to be annoyed at this entire conversation. There was a presumptuousness to his manner that grated, like the nobles who demanded to be waited upon at court. And yet something about him put her at ease. It felt like speaking to an old friend. "And what was your name, again?"

"Oh, Endymion."

"Endee--" she stumbled over the long, foreign name, trying to remember why it sounded so familiar. 

"Mion," he finished for her. "Close enough."

Myrna's face was still screwed up in thought. Where had she--"Oh! Bluebells! You're named after Bluebells?"

He stared at her a moment, then laughed. "I don't know. I might be. And you? Should I call you by a name, or do you like Ms. Witch?"

"Gods, please don't. Just Myrna will do. Now please tell me where you're from so you might satisfy my cat's curiosity and he can go back to napping. That much stress can't be good for him."

Endymion turned to see Artemis hunched defensively on his shelf, green eyes trained on him, white fur bristling a bit. "Ah. I certainly didn't come here to upset your familiar. Right now, I'm not really from anywhere. I'm on my way to see someone and hoping to stay as long as she'll have me. Before this, I was in Britanny. Nice little country just across the water."

"And before that?"

Endymion shrugged. "All over, really. I've sort of lost track." He flicked his hand dismissively, as though it was perfectly normal to forget what countries he had visited, as easily as a person forgot what they ate for breakfast a week ago.

Myrna tried to imagine what that was like, and found she could not. She had left the kingdom only a few times in the past, and only once had she traveled across the sea. That had been another life, and the poor Princess had been so seasick on that voyage…

She clamped down hard on that train of thought. "But where were you born? Surely you haven't forgotten that." She had still not ruled out the possibility that she was entertaining a Fae creature, and he was not doing a particularly good job of dispelling that fear.

He smiled fondly. "Just a little region called Caria, far from here. It's not important. I haven't been there in a long time." He looked to Artemis again, inquisitively. "Does that satisfy you?"

Artemis hissed.

Myrna frowned. "He's never done that before."

Endymion did too. "I apologize. I'm the one intruding. I will make sure you are rid of me as soon as the rain has stopped."

Myrna bit back a sigh. Remember the rules of hospitality, she told herself. Not even being a witch could save her if she got cursed for the sin of mistreating a guest. "Nonsense. I would be a poor host if I turned you out in the middle of the night."

Samthann's house did come equipped with a guest room. Unfortunately, Myrna had been using it to store all the things she did not feel like putting in their proper places throughout the rest of the house. She muttered a curse when she walked into the musty-smelling room and nearly tripped over an ugly chair that she had been quick to rid herself of, barely keeping hold of the candle she was carrying. Boxes of empty jars were stacked up on top of a table that she had never cared to use. Books that she could find no place for once she'd pulled them from the shelves were piled haphazardly, and the stems of some herbs she had forgotten after she left them to dry were disintegrating into a fine dust over everything. 

"That's a lot of books," Endymion said cheerfully behind her.

Myrna cast a hand vaguely over the expanse of them. "Read them to your heart's content."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minako = Myrna  
> Kunzite = The Ankou  
> Setsuna = Samthann  
> Ami = Amhra  
> Endymion = Endymion


	4. Chapter 4

The rain did not stop in the morning. The trees sagged beneath the wet, looking more brown and drab than the vibrant golds and oranges they had been the day before. The sound of it pattering on the windows made Myrna feel sleepy, and she made the morning tea extra strong. She had woken early, her sleep troubled by the strange guest under her roof. It must have made Endymion sleepy too, because he did not stir from her little guest room.

She had started her own book, in an empty one Samthann had left behind. If she was going to keep relying on Samthann's knowledge, she should at least attempt to put together her own reference guide. Of course, Myrna was not as organized as Samthann, so her notes jumped all over the place, from herbs she needed to remember to how long she was meant to let the tea steep. Most of all, it was thoughts about the Ankou. 

__

  * Not from here?? Acts like a foreigner sometimes, and nobody in village looks like relative. Could still be Fae? 
  * If he'd died, would he know? Did he forget his life?
  * Can confirm, definitely not a skeleton under that robe. 



__

Myrna squinted again at Samthann's book, turned open to the page on bluebells. She had looked up the matter in On the Natural Forces, and now she understood why you were not supposed to bring them inside. Bluebells were a favorite flower of the Fae. To walk through a field of them was to disturb them. After a moment's thought, she added: 

__

  * Doesn't even know what bluebells are for. Probably not Fae. 



__

Of course, that said nothing of the stranger she was hosting. Why did he make her feel so at ease while Artemis was so wary of him? If he was Fae, the wise course of action would be to treat him with respect and give him all he asked for. 

Fury stirred in the pit of Myrna's stomach. If he was Fae, he deserved nothing of the sort.

Myrna hastily flipped through On the Natural Forces again. Didn't she see a list--there! A list of herbs to repel Fae. 

  


Myrna went to her kitchen window, overlooking the overgrown backyard. A rowan tree stood proud, leaves turning a fiery red-gold that could not be entirely dulled by the rain. She looked at Artemis, who sat on a high shelf, watching her. "I really shouldn't, you know."

Artemis flicked an ear. Myrna set down the book, and went outside. In the cold rain, Myrna found a low branch about the length of her arm that was heavy with berries, its leaves still bright and not quite ready to fall off. She snapped the whole branch off and brought it inside, tracking water into the kitchen. She stripped the bright red berries from the branch and dropped them into a small pot. Then she found some apples in the pantry, sliced those up, and piled the pieces on top of the berries. She covered the fruit with fresh water and hung the pot over the fire to boil. 

Myrna was, strictly speaking, not a cook. She had never had use for the skill in her previous life, and even now, living alone as she did, she was left so many baskets of bread and cheese and sausage that she hardly saw reason to learn now. Certainly, she had figured eventually how long to boil an egg for, after multiple failed attempts. 

However, Myrna had also been following Samthann's instructions on potion-making, and this did not seem very different. She let the fruit boil until it looked like mush, and then she pushed it through a sieve. The resulting bright red substance certainly _looked_ like jam. Myrna tried sticking her finger in the pot and licking it -- and promptly choked. "Sugar!" she gasped to Artemis. "Needs sugar!" 

Perhaps not quite like brewing a potion after all. 

When she had dumped the contents of her sugar bowl into the pot, it actually tasted something like jam. It was a little runny, but surely part of the charm of being served breakfast in a quiet country home was the rustic style of the food. Or so she told herself. 

By the time she had finished and the rowan berry jam had cooled, it was late morning. The visitor had still not stirred, and Myrna was growing impatient. How long did he intend to sleep? What if she got called upon to help someone, and she was forced to leave this stranger alone in her house? 

And so, she dug around the pantry until she found an old tray. She sliced up some fresh bread and some cheese, and scooped the rowan jam into a little bowl, and arranged them all on the tray. As an afterthought, she stripped some of the golden-red leaves from the rowan tree branch, arranged them in a little glass, and set this on the tray as well. 

She found Artemis watching her from his shelf as she carried the tray from the kitchen. "What?" she said defensively. "I'm being hospitable."

She sniffed as she passed beneath the cat. It wasn't like she was trying to _poison_ him. Probably. Fae probably couldn't be poisoned, really. Suffer a loss of power, maybe, or some discomfort. It wasn't like they could die, right? 

Myrna balanced the tray on her hip as she drew up to the door and gave it a gentle knock. "Good morning!" she sing-songed. 

Silence was her only response. Myrna frowned at the door. "Endymion? Breakfast is ready!" 

A few beats passed as she listened intently. Not even the stir of bedclothes could be heard through the door. Eventually Myrna made up her mind, and reached for the doorknob. "Clothed or not, here I come!" 

Endymion lay on the bed, fully dressed. He must have changed into spare clothes that he'd kept dry in his pack, simple garments that might have seemed humble if they were not so finely-made. He looked like a minor lord who had simply taken a moment of leisure to recline on the pillows, eyes closed and mouth turned up in the ghost of a smile. The very picture of peace. 

Except for his pallour. Except for how he did not stir when she entered the room. Myrna shoved the tray onto a pile of books, tipping over the jar of rowan leaves and sending it crashing to the floor. Even then, there was no movement from the black-haired guest in her bed, and she rushed to him muttering "no no no no no!" under her breath.

His flesh was still warm, but it was clammy. If he still breathed, she could not hear it escaping his nose when she bent to listen. But it was then, when her head was tilted to the side, that she noticed the same cup she had given him the night before for his tea. And beside it, a crystal vial, nearly empty. "You--" she stood upright and could only stare down at him. "What have you…"

No time. No time to question. He was her guest. He might have made Artemis uncomfortable, but he was her _guest._

Myrna turned and ran down the hall, through the main room, to the kitchen. She dug through papers and open books, flinging things onto the floor with trembling hands. She caught sight of the tome she needed and gave a cry of triumph before racing back, boots pounding on the floorboards. Artemis followed this time, as she ran into the room and unceremoniously dropped the book on her patient's belly, flipping it open. "How dare you take poison under my roof, you selfish git," she muttered as she frantically flipped through entries on various forms of poison. "You're _lucky_ it's my roof and not some farmer's. I can reverse any poison in this book, I just need to--" She grabbed the crystal vial and held it up in the morning sunlight. "Is that clear, or--it's got a tinge of color to it. It doesn't smell like arsenic, but maybe--"

The crystal was delicately faceted, and the light shimmered when it passed through it. Amazing, how Myrna could notice such a thing at a time like this. 

Suddenly, the light shimmering through the vial dimmed. Myrna sucked in a breath when she felt the familiar chill at the back of her neck. Her hands dropped to her sides as she glanced down at Endymion. He was paler than ever, practically a specter already. She was too late. 

Myrna spun around to face the Ankou. 

He stood where she knew he would be, where the air made her shiver the most. His black hood was drawn up, the tips of his pale hair spilling out like starlight. Myrna stepped forward. "No! Get out! You're not having him!"

The Ankou stared at her. "Myrna?"

"I don't care if it's your job! I don't care that he's some idiot who did it to himself! He's _my_ guest and _my_ responsibility, and I will not have him dying under my roof, you understand?"

The Ankou remained where he was, continuing to stare down at her. "Your guest."

Myrna advanced on him again, her hand pressing to the Ankou's chest. As though she could possibly withhold him if he thought to move closer. "Yes, my guest! Hospitality still applies, you know, even if he creeps out my cat!"

The Ankou stood there, held back by the hand of a furious witch who stood a head shorter than him even when she had herself drawn up as tall as a queen. His pale gaze shifted from her to the man on the bed, lingering a breath away from death. He reached up and pulled back his hood. She liked him better without it, when she could see how human his face was in the light. But why did she not like what she saw now, when he would no longer meet her eyes? Why did he look so sad?

Behind her, Artemis let out a hiss. 

And there was a gasp on the bed. "Ow. Whose book is this?"

Myrna whirled around for the second time in as many minutes. Endymion sat up on the bed, looking as perfectly healthy as he had the night before. His color had all but returned, and his blue eyes were bright as ever. He was holding the book in some bafflement when he noticed Myrna. "Oh, is this yours? Do you want it back?" He flipped through it briefly. "Wow, this is very thorough. Actually, do you mind if I look through it first?"

"Endymion." The very floorboards shuddered with the Ankou's voice. 

Endymion's gaze shifted from the book to Myrna. And for a moment, she wondered if he had heard his name, or if he was like any other ordinary mortal, the voice of death passing unheard over him. But then his eyes moved to fix on the third occupant in the room. "You made it."

Myrna hardly felt herself breathe as the Ankou moved silently to stand beside her, his expression unreadable as he looked down at Endymion. "So did you, apparently."

Endymion scowled. "Despite the ocean's best efforts. I so despise sea voyages."

The Ankou brought his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if it were actually possible for him to develop a headache. "Have you lost all sense of discretion?"

"Hm?" Endymion glanced up from flipping through the book of poisons again. "Oh. Alright, I do admit that this was poorly timed on my part." He looked over at Myrna. "I apologize for causing you unnecessary fear. That was incredibly rude of--"

"A witch's house, Endymion! You land in a country you are long banished from, and you immediately drink poison in a witch's house! It's like you are asking to be noticed!"

Endymion started to open his mouth before he seemed to think better of whatever flippant retort was about to tumble out. "Maybe I am. I don't know. I'm sorry."

Myrna glanced between the two of them, the messenger of death and his apparent friend. A friend who died in front of her, only to sit up and talk about it as though this was all perfectly normal. She still had the crystal vial clutched in her hand, so tightly that only now did she begin to notice the facets jutting sharply into her fingers. 

"That story you told me," she said slowly, turning to face the Ankou. "About the king who could not die. That wasn't just a story."

The look in his pale eyes was all the confirmation he gave. 

"Wait, you two have talked before?" Endymion snapped the book shut, staring at Myrna in wonder, then back to the Ankou. "You talk to a human being who isn't me? Since when?"

"That is -- really not important right now," the Ankou stated flatly.

"So, what, you drink poison for _fun_?" Myrna rounded on her apparently immortal guest. 

Endymion raised his eyebrows. "Of course not. I do it to call him. I mean, it's probably unnecessary now that I'm here, but when I'm far from these lands, and he doesn't know where I am, the easiest way to summon him is for something to die, and well, that's easy enough for me, so…"

"To _call_ him?!" Myrna held the deadly vial up, still clutched so tight that it felt like the facets might cut through her skin. "That's what this is to you, just a -- a messenger pigeon? Are we mortals such a joke to you?"

Endymion looked stricken, all traces of amusement lost now. "No! That's not--"

"And you," Myrna turned to the Ankou. "All your talk of your duty, and yet it ends with him? How many times have you been compelled to take him and yet still resisted? Will there ever be enough poison?"

The Ankou said nothing. His unblinking eyes remained on hers, betraying no answers. Myrna screwed up her fist and hurled the vial at him. It would have been satisfying if it had hit him, or shattered against the wall. Instead it struck soundlessly against the soft folds of cloak at his shoulder and clattered to the floor. 

In the ringing silence, Endymion delicately asked, "would it be best if I left?"

"Stay! I don't care. Drink all the poison in the house, since it matters so little!" Myrna stormed from the room, waited for Artemis to dart out into the hall, and slammed the door behind her. After a moment's thought, she opened it again. "But don't touch my sword!"

The second slam was louder.

  


***

The rain had given way to fog. A chill white blanket hung over the woods, obscuring all but the closest trees. An eerie hush fell over the forest, as though the trees themselves held their breath in wait. Here and there, a golden leaf, still heavy with rain, would finally break free of its branch and drift down to strike the ground with a dull slap. 

Only the sound of a witch on a rampage interrupted the stillness. Myrna stormed down the path with a fury that could cause the very trees to flee. Even Artemis seemed reluctant to remain too close, slinking through the underbrush just off the track, a ghostlike flash of white here and there the only indication that he was keeping up with her. 

Myrna had a satchel with her as pretext for the walk. She had deliberately chosen a destination out of her way, somewhere that would give her time to think. 

Would it have been better if Endymion were a Fae after all? At least then she could view him as a foreign entity. At least his cavalier attitude would have reason to it -- the views of one who has never dwelled with death, as humans do. Though now Myrna's thoughts turned back to Samthann's book, to the theories about the Ankou as an agent of the Fae. The Underworld and the Otherworld were not so far apart, after all…

The path turned into a wooden trackway as the ground dipped toward bogland. Artemis hopped up on the old wooden planks, eager to be off the ground. It was an old trackway, but the planks laid across it were wide and still held sturdy when Myrna put her weight on them. The night's rain had turned even higher ground soggy, and the hems of Myrna's skirts were already heavy with mud that slapped against her boots. 

Islands of tall grasses and mossy mounds were clustered thick in the bog, obscuring how deep the water went. The fog still slinked between the trees, and somehow the silence here was even thicker as she moved further out over the water. Myrna soon found even the start of the path lost to her. All the world faded away except for witch and cat and water beneath. 

Myrna stood where she was, and sighed. "What am I doing, Artemis? I can't do this. I can't help anyone. I couldn't even save a man who can't die."

Artemis crouched over the water, his tail flicking. He acknowledged he heard her with the tilt of his ears. 

"What's to stop me from walking away now? The house will find a new owner, just like it did me. There will always be someone to fill the job. Right?"

Maybe, she thought. But then what? She was barred from her old life, and it was the lack of any other direction that led her here. Walking into the house of a witch she'd met once, seeking guidance, only to find it empty and ready for her arrival. If she left, would another find it like she did? If she were a true witch, she would know the answer to that question, wouldn't she?

Myrna sighed, and dropped the satchel onto the trackway. Might as well have been doing something useful while she brooded. Maybe she would leave the life of a witch behind in the morning. In the meantime, winter was coming, and she needed to stock up on moss.

She knelt on the boards and plunged her hand into the water to pull up a handful of moss. The thick, heavy moss would make a useful bandage when dried, as it could absorb so much moisture. Even Amhra confirmed its usefulness in their weekly tea meetings. 

Artemis darted away when she brought up her mossy handful, sloshing brown water that smelled of rotten eggs. At least, Myrna thought wryly, she was not squeamish. Slowly, with much stretching and leaning, she managed to accumulate a reasonable pile of the bright green stuff, which she left on the boards to drain before she inevitably got her satchel sopping wet. Artemis took up watching from a safer distance, where he was at less risk of touching dreaded bog water.

She had almost determined herself finished when it happened. Myrna was leaning out, trying to tug at a stubborn mound of moss, when the other hand she was leaning on slipped on the wet boards. Myrna had time to let out a single shout before she plunged face-first into the bog. She came up splashing and screaming obscenities. "Eyes! It's in my eyes! Goddamnit Artemis! You better not tell a soul about this!"

The cat did absolutely nothing to reassure her of this as Myrna flailed her way to the edge of the trackway. Only when she was clutching at it did she notice her head was bare. "My hat--!" 

Sickening visions of herself diving back into the water in search of it rushed through Myrna's head. It wasn't the hat that she would miss, but the red silk sash tied around it, and the spell it still held…

The hat appeared above her, then. Where the trackway had been empty before, save for a white cat and a satchel and a pile of wet moss, now the Ankou stood, holding her perfectly dry hat out for her, the red ribbon still tied neatly in place. 

What she should have said was thank you. Instead, soaked from head to toe, still immersed in stinking brown water, her hair tangled in her face, she blurted, "how long have you been standing there?!"

"Only a few seconds, I assure you."

"And you saved my hat?"

"I tried to grab for you too, but…" he trailed off, looking down at the hat with exactly the same expression that Myrna had been feeling only moments before. Like holding that hat was the most useless action imaginable.

"I probably would have punched you in the face if you'd tried," she assured him.

His mouth twitched. "My face thanks you for your sacrifice."

"Please don't ask me to flatter you when I'm up to my shoulders in old egg smell. This water is cold and gross and--oh gods, are there bog bodies in here?"

"I… have no idea. But I can assure you that if there are, they are well past the point of doing you harm." The Ankou shifted her hat to his other hand, and held his now-empty one out for her to take. She hardly noticed how cool his hand felt, after being in the water. He pulled, and Myrna emerged from the bog like a bedraggled hag, sodden clothes dripping all over the boards. Surely, she thought enviously, the Ankou did not need to concern himself with things like laundry, as she slumped against his shadowy robes. There was nothing warm about them, but at least they were dry, and the Ankou was a steady anchor beneath her weight.

Artemis sat several feet away, watching with the resentful look of a cat who almost got splashed. Seeing his hunched up appearance, ears flicked back in annoyance, was what did it. Myrna started laughing. "I give up! I lost any dignity I ever hoped to have, and I am never getting it back!"

The Ankou regarded her seriously. "I promise you are every bit as dignified when you are soaked from head to toe."

Myrna snorted, reaching up to make a cursory effort at pushing soaked hair out of her face and pulling some form of vegetation from her bangs. "Really? With my hair full of green slime and who knows what else?"

"Are you not still the same witch who thrice lectured Death himself on how to do his job?"

Myrna tugged at the clinging fabric of her sleeve, brushing plant matter from it. "I'm not so sure that the third time counts."

"You tried to defend the life of a man who you do not even particularly like. That is no trivial matter."

"I do not dislike Endymion. I just think he's wrong."

"I apologize for his thoughtlessness. He has lived many lives. Died many deaths. It's easier for him, I think, to pretend it does not matter to him."

"How many times has he died? Does he even know?"

"I doubt he does."

"Do you?"

The Ankou's pale eyes drifted away from hers. He knew. Every time he was summoned to Endymion's side, every death almost granted. The Ankou counted them all, and held the number close to his heart. 

Myrna looked away too, over the trees that had turned to soft watercolors behind the fog. "Is he the only one?"

"Yes. His is the one heart that I can never stop."

Myrna reached for her hat, still held at his side. The red silk bow safely intact thanks to his intervention. "I hope someday you can tell me why. For now, I would very much like a change of clothes. Would the Ankou be so kind as to escort me home?"

The Ankou finally turned to her again, and she detected a softness in his expression. He gave her a slight bow. "It would be my honor, good witch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minako = Myrna  
> Kunzite = The Ankou  
> Setsuna = Samthann  
> Ami = Amhra  
> Endymion = Endymion


	5. Chapter 5

  


There was no hope for Myrna to dry off. A gentleman would have offered her his cloak, but the Ankou thought better of the gesture, given that his cloak was liable to only make her colder, if it could be given at all. She made do with braiding her wet hair and pinning her skirts up so the wet fabric did not catch at her ankles as she walked. The satchel full of moss was equally sodden, somehow managing to make the hip it leaned against feel even more damp. With her hat back on, she only looked a little bedraggled. At least that was not a quality anybody would mind seeing in a witch, if she encountered anyone other than her companion.

She should have felt quite miserable, but somehow, she hardly noticed the discomfort at all. The Ankou walked beside her, matching her ordinary mortal pace. The fog still lingered around them, making his cloak look like a stark black patch over a faded cotton quilt. Artemis trailed behind, tail up and alert. 

They were not far from her home when Myrna saw a pair of figures in the distance. With the fog, it was impossible to discern details. 

The Ankou saw them too. "I should--"

She reached for his hand and held it tightly. "Don't go. Please. They can't see you anyway." He looked as startled as Myrna felt over her clinginess. He could come and go as he pleased, could appear beside her again with a second's notice. But it did not feel like enough. She wanted him to walk her home. She wanted him to stay when they got there. 

The Ankou nodded. He remained walking beside her, his cold hand in hers. The fog slowly revealed the two figures they approached. Myrna recognized Amhra first, the petite physician walking a little ahead of someone equally short. Someone whose pale hair seemed almost to fade into the fog around them.

Myrna's breath caught in her throat. Something like a sob lodged there, silent and immobile as a stone. She broke away from the Ankou to race forward. 

"Myrna!" the girl screamed, and she was running as well, her simple cloak fluttering open to reveal a gown more appropriate to royal court than it was to trekking through the woods. "Myrna! My Myrna!" She was as tiny as Myrna remembered, a fragile little princess who gripped her in a strangling hug. "Ew, you're all wet!" 

Myrna buried her face in a sea of goldenrod hair. "Forgive me, Princess. I wasn't exactly expecting you."

"You left!" the princess openly sobbed, shedding the tears that Myrna could not. "You were gone and everyone acted like you'd never been there at all! They all forgot your name and I was so scared and so sad for you but I could never forget you! And then Amhra said she knew you and she knew where you were and I just had to come! I had to, even if you didn't want it!"

The white fog swam around them. So bright that it was almost blinding. Just as it was on the last day that Myrna saw her Princess. 

_The full moon shone through Princess Saerlaith's window, bathing the room in moonlight. Myrna stood frozen at the foot of her bed, clutching the silver pendant that Saerlaith had loaned her to wear to the evening's dance, and that she had snuck into her room to return. It was late, and she should not have been here, but they had known each other since they were young teens, and Saerlaith had never closed any door to Myrna._

_It was not the way that Saerlaith's hair seemed to gleam in reflection of the moon's light that held her transfixed. Nor was it the distant music Myrna heard, though the lute player had been sent home hours ago. No, it was the flowers. A bouquet of bluebells had been left in a silver pot beside Saerlaith's bed. Now they floated above it, in slow, lazy circles. A gentle tornado, rotating with the faintest breeze just over the sleeping princess. It almost seemed to drift in time with the princess's breathing, rhythmic puffs buffeting it along. Caught up among the bright blue flowers were the pages of a letter. "My love," began one page, in Saerlaith's big, loopy hand, as it drifted past Myrna._

_She should have walked away. It was not the first time something strange had happened in Saerlaith's presence, and it would not be the last. It was harmless. It was beyond her, a mere guard, even the princess's very closest guard, to wonder about._

_Instead, Myrna reached out to the nearest bluebell and plucked it from the air._

_That was when the world exploded in white._

White like the moon itself were descending upon them. Myrna clung to her princess. They were coming for her again, and this time, they would not be merciful. 

When Myrna could squint through the light, she no longer saw Amhra. She no longer saw the trees. Standing in the emptiness was a tall being with eyes like opals -- glistening and cold. Twin shafts of long white hair hung from her head, just as it did Saerlaith's, and she was crowned with a wreath of silver leaves that was adorned in the front with a crescent moon. 

The voice was strangely wispy, distant, and yet somehow all around them. "Foolish, predictable human. How quickly you spurn my warnings. You had only to stay away."

"Myrna…?" Princess Saerlaith stared up at her with wide, panicked eyes. If those eyes were a little less blue, a little more alien, they might have matched those of the Fae who stood over them. 

Before, Myrna cowered before those eyes. She was a mere mortal. A lowly human. What hope could she have to stand before a Fae and hope to keep her life? (And oh, if only death were the worst punishment the Fae would inflict.) It was a mercy that she had escaped only with the punishment she did. _Never again seek to look upon your Princess's face, for you were never worthy to do so to begin with, mortal._

She had fled with her secret and only her sword as a relic of her former life. Fled to a little village she and the Princess had passed through once, to the house of a witch who seemed to know everything. 

Myrna's hands remained protectively around Saerlaith's shoulders. "She came looking for me. You know your charms will not work on her. And you cannot keep her from being lonely."

The Fae tilted her head slightly. She was clad in shimmering white, Myrna now noticed, and from her back sprung gossamer wings that were so fine that she could only see them by the faint rainbow sheen of their edges. "Lonely? What a human word. My daughter would not know this feeling."

"You left her to be raised by humans. Did you think she wouldn't learn to feel as they do?"

Saerlaith finally swung her head around to stare at the great being who towered over them. "Daughter? You must be mistaken. My parents are the king and queen."

There was no trace of feeling in those opal eyes as they shifted to survey Saerlaith. "Perhaps you are right. She has been tainted by the mortal world. The time to return her to her rightful place among the Court is long past. Come, daughter."

Saerlaith did not move. "I don't know you."

The Fae watched her cooly. "Of course you do, child. The flowers laugh with joy as you pass them by. You hear the music of their voices and it paints the colors of your dreams. You have known us since the day of your birth. You carried our world in your heart even as you lived among mortals."

Myrna's hands curled around Saerlaith's shoulders. She wanted to say: you're a Changeling, Saerlaith. She wanted to say: you have always been more than human, and I've always known, even if you did not. She wanted to say: your unexplained illnesses, the way people are drawn to you, anybody could have seen the signs if they thought about it. 

Instead, she pulled at her princess until she tore her gaze away from the otherworldly being to look at her. "Your place is where you want it to be, Saerlaith. I can't tell you what to do, and neither can she."

Saerlaith reached for Myrna's hands and held them in a crushing grip. "I just wanted to find you again. I want to be with the boy I've been exchanging letters with. Oh, wait until you meet him, Myrna! I just know you'll love Endy--"

"Silence." The word shuddered through the air, and Myrna felt the breath pulled from her lips. "You have interfered enough, mortal. A less patient Queen than I would already have your lying tongue for a trophy." The Fae looked again upon her daughter. "They are unworthy of you. It is time for you to leave this temporary world behind."

Still Saerlaith clutched at Myrna. "It's not temporary to me."

Something like a sigh coursed through the air. "Then I shall make it so." The Fae's hand moved. So did Myrna. She pulled Saerlaith behind her. Her mouth opened in a shout, but no sound escaped. 

"I think you have received your answer, my Queen." The Ankou stepped into the white expanse like spilled ink onto clean parchment. His hood was up. A scythe as tall as himself was held in one hand. Formalities, Myrna realized. He was playing the part. 

The Fae Queen threw him a disdainful look. "It is not your place to determine that, Ankou."

"You placed me in charge of the world of mortals. It follows, then, that those who would remain in that world are under my care. Even if it is not where they began."

"I gave you one purpose only: to hunt souls as your Prince once so delighted in hunting game. Do you think I have not noticed his presence nearby either, Ankou? Would you like me to make permanent what you will not?" The Queen stepped to the side as she spoke, and a shadow rose behind her: black, like the Ankou's cloak. A stag stood behind the Queen, stately and dark as if carved from ebony. It was like all of the darkness the Queen did not have had congealed into animal form.

The Ankou noted the stag coolly before returning his attention to the Queen who had summoned it. "All I ask is that you consider your daughter's wishes. Mortal lives pass in mere moments in your eyes. The people that she loves will be gone as quickly as the Court's next feast. Let her enjoy the little time she has with them before she takes up her place beside you."

The Queen did not move. She, like the Ankou, could fall to stillness like a marble statue. The stag, however. The black stag paced, slowly, around the Ankou, surveying him with one glassy black eye. 

It was all Myrna could do to keep breathing. She felt the absence of her voice like a cold hollowness in her throat. Saerlaith pressed against her back, hands clutching at Myrna's arms, at once frightened and protective of the former guard who stood once again between her and danger. 

The stag finished its slow rotation around the Ankou, and returned to its Queen, where it lifted its head to her as though reporting what it saw. Though Myrna heard nothing, the Queen nodded, once. She stepped toward Myrna, toward Saerlaith. 

Myrna braced herself for a horror that never came. The Queen brushed her aside as neatly as she might a gnat on her gown, and somehow, unwillingly, Myrna was no longer in front of Saerlaith. Fae Queen gazed down at princess -- princess of Fae and mortals alike. "This is truly where your heart lies?"

Saerlaith blinked back the tears that had been welling in her eyes. She drew herself up to her full, diminutive height. "It is."

The Queen nodded. "Then stay--and love their fleeting lives as you wish. When you are ready, my daughter, the Court will welcome you."

Saerlaith smiled, warmly and fearlessly. "Thank you--mother."

The white light became too much again. It flooded Myrna's vision, overwhelming her senses. She could not see which way the Queen and her shadow departed to. When it faded again at last, she and Saerlaith stood again on an ordinary forest path. Queen and stag and Ankou were gone. 

"What happened? Where did you go?" Amhra's voice was shrill with panic as she appeared from between the trees. "The fog suddenly rolled in so thick that I couldn't see anybody, and nobody would answer me! I thought something had happened!"

Myrna opened her mouth to speak and coughed instead. 

"I'm sorry, Amhra," Saerlaith laid a soothing hand on the physician's arm. "I was so caught up in seeing my Myrna that I must not have heard a thing. Right Myrna?"

The cold silence in Myrna's throat finally dislodged itself. "Right. Yes." Something touched her leg, and she looked down find Artemis rubbing up against it. She picked him up, holding him close against her shoulder. Despite the dampness of her clothes, he purred. "Amhra, thank you for bringing Saerlaith to see me."

The young physician smoothed out her short-cropped hair. "Of course, though I hardly saw another course of action, after she lied about her illness just so she'd be sent to see me, ostensibly so I would tell her where to find you."

Myrna raised her eyebrows at her princess. "You did what, now?"

Saerlaith sheepishly ducked away from her. "It was only a little lie. Anyway, I was sick! I was heartsick!"

"Some things never change," Myrna laughed. "Come, little princess. I have a surprise waiting for you at home."

Saerlaith perked up considerably. "A surprise? But you didn't know I was coming! Amhra! You'll come too, right?"

Amhra sighed a fond, longsuffering sigh. "Of course, princess."

"Oh! Myrna, is your friend coming too? You were walking with him earlier, right?"

Myrna smiled, leading the way back with Artemis on her shoulder. "He'll catch up."

***

  


It was not bold displays of passion that convinced Myrna of Endymion's feelings for Princess Saerlaith. They had, according to Saerlaith, been exchanging letters for years now, ever since that trip she and Myrna took to Brittany as teenagers, and she'd met him while Myrna was too busy tasting the local ciders to notice. Endymion, who must have had so many lovers before, would know all the flattering things to say to make a sweet girl like Saerlaith fall for him. But no, Endymion, young of face and old of heart, looked as nervous and tongue-tied as a school boy upon meeting his Princess.

Amhra soon retreated with mutterings of all the patients she had awaiting her, and Myrna left them to their awkward courtship to find herself dry clothes and hot water to bathe in. Dusk found her in her bedroom, smelling of sweet oils and combing out her wet hair in front of a mirror. The hat sat on the vanity in front of her, red bow dry and vibrant as ever thanks to the Ankou's intervention. 

She smiled to herself when she saw the shadows deepen behind her in the mirror. "Awfully bold of you to enter a lady's chambers uninvited." 

"I will leave, if the lady desires."

Myrna turned, and found him standing in the corner, where the candlelight did not quite reach. She held out her comb to him. "I would rather you pay for your boldness by doing me a service."

He crossed the room, silent as air. There was a softness in his eyes as he took the comb from her. He gathered her long hair in one hand and slowly brought the comb through her hair with the other in long, rhythmic strokes. Myrna watched him through the mirror, the careful movements of his hands, the serious expression that never left his face. "Thank you," she said after a moment. "For what you did."

The gentle stroking of her hair did not pause. "It was…" 

"It was a risk that you took. I could see that much, at least."

"No greater a risk than scolding Death, I think."

Myrna pulled her hat toward her, and carefully began undoing the knot in the ribbon. "One thing I realized, at least. The way that you look at Endymion is no different from the way I look at Saerlaith. If I were in your position, and she in his, I cannot say I would do any part of it differently."

The Ankou said nothing as he continued to brush her hair. Myrna managed to free the red silk ribbon, and she began to unwind it from the hat's brim. "Would you like to hear my last theory? About how you became the Ankou?"

He nodded, his eyes meeting hers briefly in the mirror. 

"Once, a prince from a far-away land was visiting this one, his loyal guard in attendance. The prince was young and unfamiliar with the ways of magic here. He went hunting in the woods, and shot a beautiful black stag."

The sound of the comb passing through hair was the only response the Ankou gave. Myrna slowly wound the red silk around her hand. 

"The Fae Queen tried to punish the prince for his slight against her. But his guard stepped in and took responsibility for the crime. The Ankou was born, and the prince was sent home. Unscathed, but without the guard he had loved. Prince became king in the country of his birth, but when the time came for him to depart from this world, the Ankou refused to take him." Myrna reached the end of the silk ribbon, now wrapped fully around her hand. "Does that sound like a familiar story?"

The corner of the Ankou's mouth twitched. "Very nearly. Though there is one factor you have neglected."

"What would that be?"

"The utter recklessness of my prince. I'm afraid he did not quite make it to being crowned, the first time."

Myrna snorted. "I should have guessed. My mistake." 

The Ankou leaned down low, his face very near hers, as he reached over her shoulder to lay the comb on the vanity. "Then, would you permit me to tell my own story?"

Myrna turned to face him. He took her hand in his, still bound up in red silk. "Once there was a princess who was beloved by everyone, but only her guard truly knew her. Knew her so well that she saw the immortality behind her eyes." His cool hands began to unravel the silk from her hand, loop by loop. "For learning this forbidden knowledge, the Fae Queen banished the guard from ever seeing her princess again. The guard's old life vanished even from the memories of those who knew her." His fingers brushed hers as they were slowly stripped bare, layer by layer. "But the guard found a new life waiting for in a witch's house, and took up the role despite all that she lost."

Myrna smiled. "And then she met a mysterious yet dashing gentleman--"

"And promptly shouted at him."

"He shouldn't have teased her."

He reached the end of the silk ribbon. There were no more secrets left to unbind. He held it out to her. "You're right. Do you think she will ever forgive him?"

Myrna took the silk from him and tossed it aside. "Depends on how long he intends to make it up to her for."

***  
Samhain came unexpectedly for Myrna. She had been too preoccupied with everything else to consider the festival at the month's end, but on the morning of October 31, she was flooded with visitors. It seemed that superstitions over pleasing the beings of the Otherworld extended to witches, and so townsfolk she had never even met before came to present to her their autumn bounty. Saerlaith positively squealed with delight when one showed up with cakes. "Oooh are we going to have a Samhain feast? Can we roast apples like when we were kids? Can we invite Amhra?"

Endymion started laughing from his position by the bookshelf. He had been steadily consuming every book in Myrna's possession when he was not fully occupied by Saerlaith. "You are enthusiastic about absolutely everything in life, aren't you?"

Saerlaith bounded across the room just to poke him in the nose. "Only because everything in life is worth being enthusiastic for."

Myrna set the basket of cakes down on a counter already crowded with food. At this rate, they would have to have a feast whether she wished it or not. Entertaining guests was actually a blessing, in this instance. She had fixed up the guest room so that it was more suited to hosting her Princess, and the two of them seemed quite content in there. She had also surreptitiously taken the remainders of the rowan berry jam into the back garden and buried it at the base of the tree from whence it came. After all, Saerlaith was known to try tasting anything that even _looked_ like it might be sweet, and Myrna was not taking any chances. 

"Myrna? Myrna, are you going to invite your friend? The one in black?" Saerlaith was calling to her from across the room. Endymion was looking at her questioningly, as well. She wondered how much the two of them had shared of their secrets in the past few days. 

Myrna smiled. "He might just make an appearance."

***

Samthann's book was very precise in its instructions. Hot bread. Milk curd. Cider. A fresh white cloth. Myrna frowned at her pantry. Did it matter if the milk curd was a fresh cheese, or did aged cheese count…?

"Myrna! You're missing out on apples!" The call was immediately followed by a squeal as Saerlaith's apple no doubt plunged into the depths of the fireplace. 

"Coming!" Myrna called back, grabbing a lump of cheese folded up in a cloth. 

She nearly collided with the Ankou's chest as she turned to march back out of the kitchen. "Oh. You're late."

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I? For what?"

"For the feast, obviously. It's Samhain. It's the night to honor the dead. And death's messenger. People all over this village are leaving out tributes for you as we speak."

"Ah. I tend not to accept those very often, I'm afraid."

"How very rude. Come; I will be very hurt if you don't participate in this. I have something very special in mind." She took him by the hand and led him from the kitchen.

The table she had previously shoved into the guest room was laid out in the middle of the living room and heavily laden with the villagers' gifts. Roasted meats, cakes dripping with honey, all sorts of bread and cheese. Honeyed quinces, pickled onions, and wild strawberry jelly brought color to the table, which Myrna had decorated with hawthorn branches, the leaves bright and golden. Saerlaith, Endymion, and Amhra were clustered around the fireplace while Saerlaith instructed them on the proper means of apple roasting. 

The table was set for five. The Ankou hesitated, despite her hand tugging at him. Myrna turned and pressed a finger to his lips. "Trust me." She picked up a bottle. "Cider, Amhra?"

"Oh, I suppose a little--oh! I didn't realize you had another guest." Amhra startled at the sight of the tall, white-haired man cloaked in black. 

"He came in through the kitchen," Myrna said simply, passing Amhra a cup. 

The Ankou looked as startled as Amhra did, although this was expressed only through a momentary pause, the slightest flinch in his expression at being addressed by the least magical person in the room. Myrna briefly wondered whether Amhra, too, had fought back the Ankou's presence where her patients were concerned, though in a much less direct manner than Myrna did. The Ankou collected himself enough to speak, and he gave Amhra a nod. "My apologies for frightening you."

Behind Amhra, Endymion looked like he was about to burst--either with joy or laughter. Myrna resolved to ignore him, or she would never keep a straight face.

Myrna reached for a slice of quince and turned again to face him as she nibbled at its edges. "I'd forgotten how much I liked Samhain. It's the time when the dead can walk among the living. Anything can happen tonight."

He shook his head incredulously at her. "Especially, it seems, in the house of a witch."

Myrna licked the honey from the tip of her finger. "You never answered my question before. How long are you going to keep me waiting?"

"Which question is that?"

She stepped forward, leaning up to look him in the eye despite their difference in height. "What is your favorite food?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I thought you'd forgotten asking that."

"I never forget something so important."

He stooped so that his face was close to hers, so that his answer brushed gently against her cheek. "Pomegranates."

She drew back to see his face, a conspiratorial thrill running through her that he would share this secret with her and her alone. Saerlaith was laughing and Endymion was telling some story, but only she got to hear his whispered confession. "Are they that good?"

Hey considered the question. "I have forgotten the taste of many things, but not that. They are very sweet."

"I want to try one," Myrna said, taking his hand again. "I want you to take me to your homeland and show me how to eat a pomegranate."

The Ankou said nothing. He would not make a promise that they both knew he couldn't keep. What is a pomegranate to someone who cannot taste it? Myrna's smile did not fade as she stepped back again. "Hush, now. I have plenty of quince to tide me over."

"You're the one who helped us, right?" Saerlaith drifted up to the Ankou. She had stuck some of the hawthorn leaves in her pale golden hair. It would have made her look more like the Fae Queen, if not for her vibrant smile. "I know it must be. Thank you for what you did."

The Ankou nodded at her. "Of course, Princess."

Saerlaith looked down at the floor, playing with her long hair. "I thought about what you said. About how short everyone's lives are. And I guess mine isn't. The idea of my parents dying eventually is hard enough, but… everyone…"

He turned to regard her. "I did not mean to distress you, Princess." 

Saerlaith shook her head. "I think it's good. To think about it now. I don't want to, but… I want to enjoy the time I have with everyone now, while I can. Maybe to her, the queen… my m-mother, maybe that time makes no difference, but to me, it's… everything." She found a leaf entangled in her hair and slowly started shredding it with her fingers. "It's just, I guess it's nice to know there's another family waiting for me, but I don't know them. The idea of going to meet them alone is scary."

Myrna wrapped her arms around Saerlaith's shoulders. "You're not alone now. I'm still here."

Saerlaith leaned into her. "You're not coming back home with me though, are you?"

Myrna closed her eyes. The Fae Queen's curse was gone. She could see Saerlaith as long as she wished. But she had also been erased from the minds of everyone who knew her as the princess's guard. Saerlaith had no power to simply reinstate her role, not when she had no proof of Myrna's ability. "Let's eat, shall we?"

She was specific in her seating arrangement. Endymion at the head, Saerlaith beside him. Amhra beside her. Myrna across from the two women. The Ankou on the end. He stared blankly at the chair she pointed him to. 

"Go on," Myrna bid him. "It won't bite."

"Oh," Saerlaith looked around the room. "Myrna, you forgot the offering! We can't eat until you set it out!" 

Myrna stood. "You're right. I won't be a moment."

Endymion looked intrigued. "What offering is this?"

Saerlaith rested her chin on her hands. "To the Ankou, of course. We can't eat on Samhain without offering him a meal too. It's just rude. And unlucky. He might put a blight on the whole house."

Endymion glanced across the table at the white-haired man. "Oh really. A blight, huh? What sorts of things does the Ankou like to eat?"

Saerlaith thought about it. "Let's see. Bread, I think. Bread and cheese, was it?"

"Hot bread, milk curd, and cider, presented on a fresh white cloth." Myrna emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray covered in crisp white linen. A small loaf that she had kept warm in the oven was steaming on a plate. A little dish of fresh white cheese sat beside it, along with a mug of cider. 

Endymion's amusement continued. He leaned his chin on his hand, watching Myrna with fascination. "And the Ankou eats it? I had no idea that Death could eat."

Saerlaith nudged him. "Of course he can," she scolded. "It's Samhain! Death walks among the living. Why wouldn't he want something to eat while he's here?"

Myrna stood at the center of the long table, holding her tray. She met the Ankou's eyes. He was watching her in confusion, wondering what her intent was. The space before him on the table was clear, empty enough that the tray could easily be placed there. 

Myrna smiled to him, and turned away. She set the tray down in front of Endymion. 

He blinked down at the meal set before him, then up at her. "Sorry, what is this for…?"

"An offering," Myrna said, stepping back. "For the Ankou."

Four pairs of eyes stared at the witch. Her smile persisted. "It's Samhain in the house of a witch. Anything can happen on this night."

Endymion's eyes grew round for a moment, before suddenly he burst out laughing. "Really? It's that simple?"

Myrna folded her hands behind her back. "A meal prepared for the Ankou, on this night… why should it not be the Ankou who eats it?"

Saerlaith and Amhra both glanced around in bewilderment. The Ankou sat frozen in place. "Myrna…" he implored.

Myrna went on looking at Endymion. "I cannot make this choice for you," she said gently. 

He shook his head at her. "You do not have to. You already know my decision, I think."

The Ankou shot to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table. "Endymion!"

Endymion turned to him, and it was with an unshakable smile. "You're still not getting it. I can go with her! If I'm you, I can go with her to the Court! I won't be alone like you are, and you can finally stop paying for my crime!" He reached for Saerlaith's hand. "I can stay with you. I can live as long as you. You won't be alone."

Saerlaith stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. "You can? Truly?"

He nodded. "Forever."

"I can't ask you to do this," the Ankou said. 

"I know." Endymion broke off a piece of the bread. "But it's time for you to be free, my friend." With that, he shoved the bread in his mouth. 

The others in the room would later remember only that the lights went out. Mina thought she saw something like hundreds of black wings soar past her, tattered darkness rushing all at once down the length of the table. After only a moment, the fireplace flared to life again and the candles relit themselves. The Ankou stood at the head of the table, his cloak as black as his hair, and his eyes as blue as the ocean.

A hand came down on the end of the table as a man took his first breath in centuries. 

Myrna was beneath his arm, shouldering his weight. He was so warm, so heavy. His breaths came as raw, ragged gasps against her hair. "I've got you. You're alright. You never really forget breathing, right?"

"Apparently you do," he coughed out. His arm around her shoulder was bare and deeply tanned. Only now did she notice that what he wore in absence of the all-encompassing cloak looked like something out of the Greek mythologies. A bronze chestplate, a linen tunic, and very little else.

"The soldiers of your homeland must have truly enjoyed displaying their legs."

He steadied himself against her shoulder. "I will have you know that your people wore something similar, not so long ago."

"I'm shocked that old thing hasn't rusted," Endymion said cheerfully, coming around the table. 

The former Ankou looked at him soberly. "This is truly what you want?"

Endymion pulled him down into a hug, the black cloak nearly engulfing them both. "All I have ever wanted is your happiness, Kallias. I have lived hundreds of lives. Please live this one well, for me."

Kallias' hand went to his Prince's cheek. "For you, knowing you will always be there, in the end…"

"Always," the Ankou promised.

"I'm sorry," Amhra said tentatively. "Can anybody explain what this means?"

"It means," Myrna said, taking Kallias' hand, "that it's time to eat." She looked at him. "Shall we?"

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minako = Myrna  
> Kunzite = The Ankou  
> Setsuna = Samthann  
> Ami = Amhra  
> Endymion = Endymion  
> Serenity = Saerlaith


End file.
